Comic-Con Debauchery: Why I Left The Playboy Party For A 30-Minute Cab Ride Outside Of San Diego

It’s every man’s dream to attend a Playboy party at some point in their lives, a mandatory addition to the bucket list. I had heard of friends going to Playboy parties before, and a riotous jealousy would swarm my soul. What made them so much better than me? Why couldn’t I get into a Playboy party?

Well, Friday night at Comic-Con I would finally get my chance. The Camp Playboy party by all accounts was one of the biggest and best parties in downtown San Diego, and I had the means to get in. So what did I do? Take pictures of dozens of scantily clad bombshells? Run around in a fit of joy and proclaim to the heavens I am forever in your debt? Not even close. What occurred instead was perhaps one of the most disappointing moments as a man in my entire life. I left the Playboy party and ended up 30 minutes outside of San Diego. Can you say, EPIC FAIL?

Let’s just start off by saying I do not take the entire blame for my actions. First, I would like to blame the Comic-Con convention itself for existing. Yeah. Second, I blame all of the free alcohol that was in constant circulation. I almost just kicked myself for blaming one of the greatest combinations of words to ever partner, free + alcohol, but I’m desperate for leniency. Third, I would like to blame the city of San Diego itself, allowing that little voice to enter my head and tell me, “Use me, Derek. I want you to.”

So here’s my story. But first, I would like to list my entire consumption of alcohol leading up to my shenanigans:

So, all of this before the Camp Playboy party. You know that rush of excitement you think would occur as you enter a party like this? That was replaced by a numbing sense of inebriation. The KROQ crew strolled in, grabbed a couple of free drinks (I may have passed these up though, it’s all a bit patchy from here), and started taking group photos with as many women as we could find. A task that’s beautifully easy at a Playboy party. From here is where my fetish for a story rather than staying on the safe side of things kicked in. In this case, story could be a euphemism for vice. I told Lightning and the crew I was going for a lap to appreciate the view…they wouldn’t see me for another six hours.

In a complete drunken stupor, I walked around the party before collapsing on the artificial lawn in the middle of Camp Playboy. The fact that I was with work friends who were probably curious of my whereabouts became an afterthought as soon as it surfaced. I made friends with some random girl, we talked about how much I loved The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and how jealous I was about my restricted access to the TMNT party earlier in the day. Only now do I realize what an arrogant bastard I had truly become.

Then I left Camp Playboy. What hurts even more is that I left well before the party was over. I walked straight into [pullquote quote=”You really can’t be in here. You’re not well.”]another club without speaking a word to any of the bouncers. Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder, I turned facing a man who was clearly concerned with what he was looking at, “You really can’t be in here. You’re not well,” I of course retorted, offended even though it was quite obvious the man was right. I really shouldn’t have been anywhere outside of my hotel room at this point. But did that stop me? No. I walked, then walked some more, until I found myself in complete isolation. Over 150,000 people were here from all corners of the world, and I literally stood on a corner in downtown San Diego without a single human being in sight. If anyone was looking for an ass kicking, I was optimum bait.

A car eventually pulled up, and without registering who or what was occupying the vehicle, I jumped inside. There were two girls and a gentleman inside, and all three were obviously under the influence. We hopped on the freeway, and stayed on the freeway, hauling my shell of a self 30 minutes outside San Diego to some run down apartment. I had lost all sense of wherewithal, and morality at this point.

We entered the apartment, and then I tried to test my luck with one of the girls, who may or may not have been a troll upon reflection. She grabbed my hand. Walked into her room. Sat on her bed and held each other like strange little drunken buffoons. From there, I proceeded to lean across her body and vomit all over her bed. It was raining vomit for days, and suddenly this girl didn’t seem to be too fond of me anymore. However, I was suddenly beginning to feel amazing. Before I could ask her for another beer, she shoved me out of her house and left me outside in the boonies of San Diego.

I called a cab. The voice on the other end said, “You’re cab will be there in 10 minutes.” 20 minutes later, still stranded, I called again, “You’re cab is on its way, sir.” I waited for an hour and a half before a cab would finally come, and at this point I was beginning to sober up. Vicious thoughts circled my head. Will I be fired for this? Will karma forever be against me for pouring puke all over a girl? Only time would tell I guess.

Joe Corrigan/Getty Images

I eventually landed back at our hotel. My roommate Cody seemed to be relieved I was alive, but wondered what the hell had happened to me. I couldn’t really answer him. I still can’t answer that question.

I will live the rest of my life knowing I left a Playboy party for an overdose of walking, driving, and puking. So please. Take my advice. Don’t do what I did Friday night at Comic-Con. Not only did I lose my dignity, but my right to manhood as well. Let’s just hope I still have a job by the end of the week.